


Streetlights

by zilchs



Category: The Monkees (Band), The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Angst, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Nudity, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sadness, Sexual Content, gay ppl being stupid and gay GOD., slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:53:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29051685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zilchs/pseuds/zilchs
Summary: A strange story of close encounters and falling in and out of love through the 70s.
Relationships: Micky Dolenz/Mike Nesmith
Comments: 19
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello :3 . this is an au, so nothing really happens that's rly canon with the monkees tv show. it's set in the 70s bc that just made more sense. mike is 20 and micky is 18 . just wanted to write somethin a lil different idk where this will rly go tho hehe. enjoy

July, 1971.

The highway curved and turned into another highway. It looked just the same as the one before. Dark grey tar beneath the wheels. If he turned the radio down, he could hear the gravel crunching beneath his wheels. Everywhere was the same now. Same roads. Same Texan skies, lit up with the blazing sun. Same hotel rooms with the same leaky faucets. Same clubs with their neon signs beckoning passerbys. The only difference in all these same places were the people. Each had a separate vessel, separate stories to tell. In this endless string of identical nights, he always looked forward to someone new he would meet. Someone vibrant and someone true.

-

The sun settled comfortably just above the treetops. Peeking out from its place in the sky to say a warm ‘hello’. Mike hunched over the steering wheel and kept moving, hoping to get to his next destination before Mr. Sun said his final goodnight.

This last gig had not been much better than the ones before. It wasn’t bad, it was just another dismal moment of sameness. It was a dirty club called Foster’s, with the same sticky floor he felt under his soles a thousand times before. He sat on a stool and played his set to a bunch of drunk men just off of working on their ranch, got a small applause, a small wad of cash, and packed his guitar and left in his beaten up truck. Same old, same old. Boy, was he tired.

And scared shitless that his dad had been right.

“Music? You’re no Hank Williams.”

“Well, I- I’m not trying to be Hank Williams.”

Mike stood nervously across from the older man, guitar slung across his back.

The old man shook his head and picked at his teeth.

“You know you’re gonna break your mama’s heart?” he asked.

Mike felt a familiar pang of guilt in his chest.

“No I ain’t, she said she wants me to do what I want,” he replied, straightening his shoulders.

His dad scowled in response to his defiance.  
“I’m sure she told you that.”

Tension hung in the air as they stood in silence. Father and son facing each other for what Mike so desperately hoped would be the last time. He picked at a hangnail.

“Well,” his father clapped him on the shoulder. Mike flinched and shrunk away. “Just don’t get in too much trouble, I suppose. Remember to write your mama.”

“Yeah,” a thin trickle of blood moved down his thumb. “Course I will.”

A whole year had passed since he started this seemingly fruitless journey around Texas. Playing his cowboy music to people who didn’t have the ears to listen. He missed his mom. He wrote her letters and occasionally she’d write one back. He didn’t really miss anyone else.

The sun was further down now, almost ready to say goodbye and goodnight, its light barely skimming the treetops. He was in some town, he wasn’t sure. Just driving down a lonely street lit up by scattered streetlights. And then he saw someone.

A boy, he was pretty sure. Standing on the sidewalk with his thumb sticking out and bag by his feet. 

Mike slowed down and stopped near him. 

"Hey, handsome," the boy leaned on the car door, smiling and propping his chin in his hand. 

Mike was mildly taken aback but didn't show it. He smiled politely in response.

"You headed to Dallas?" the boy asked.

"Headin' that way," Mike replied. "Hop in."

The boy grinned even wider. He picked up his bag and fell into the passenger seat.

"What's your name?" Mike asked.

"Micky," the boy offered his hand. 

"Howdy, Micky," Mike shook his hand. "I'm Mike."

"Howdy!" Micky laughed. Mike thought it was beautiful. "You're a true Texan, huh?"

"I reckon I am," Mike grinned slyly. "You're not from around here, though?" He pressed on the gas and kept driving.

"Nah, nah, I'm from Los Angeles." 

"Los Angeles? What the hell are you doing out here?"

Micky shrugged. "Change of scenery, I guess."

He leaned back and rested his head against the window. The sun shot beams that spread through his curls and washed over his skin, turning him golden. They drove in silence, the only sound being the tappings of Micky's fingers. 

"Why you goin' to Dallas? Ain't nothin' there," Mike said. 

Micky turned in his seat, tucking his knees up against him. He grinned. "I like your accent. It's funny," his eyes twinkled. "I just need to meet more people. More good people. Big city, y'know."

"Sure, I know. Just think you could do better than Dallas. Hell, I wouldn't understand leaving California," Mike sighed. 

Micky fell silent and looked down at his hands in his lap. 

"I'm sure you had your reasons, though," Mike added quickly, sensing his companion's unease.

Micky tapped his fingers on the window. "Where you headed, Tex?"

"Denton."

"What's in Denton?" Micky kept looking at him. Mike wondered if he was flirting.

"I got a two week long stint there playing my music."

Micky gasped. "You're a musician?" 

Mike smiled sheepishly. "Sort of." He stole a glance at the curly-haired boy. He had only known him a few minutes, but he felt something different. Micky was crackling with life. It was like there was a fire burning inside him. He was also devastatingly beautiful, but Mike didn't want to think about that too much. 

"I bet you're really good," Micky snuggled up deeper into his seat and yawned. 

"You tired?" 

Micky nodded and hummed sweetly. Mike thought it was a beautiful sound.

"I've been driving all day, you wanna stop at a motel?" 

"Really?" Micky's eyes widened. "Gee, I haven't slept in a bed in weeks!" 

Mike hadn't felt much for other human beings in awhile. Too many people trying to screw him over for their own good. Club owners taking too much money. Boys in bands that told him he was really talented, but just liked how easy he was to get in bed. It hurt the same every time. Too many nights alone in motel rooms and too many days alone on twisting highways. 

But Micky was different. He was open and vibrant. And he felt scared for him. He was too pretty and too kind to be thumbing rides on the sides of Texas highways. Mike wanted to take care of him. 

Mike shook the thought out of his head. He had just met Micky. There were probably a thousand kids just like him. He shouldn't get hung up, he had a goal. Get out of Texas and make it big. Someday.

-

"Wow!" Micky exclaimed. "A real life king sized bed! And not one left in an alley for once!" He flopped on top of it, spreading his long limbs out. 

Mike watched him, amused, as he went to set down his guitar case and duffel bag. Micky rolled over and propped his chin in his hand. 

"Are we gonna have sex?"

Mike nearly dropped his guitar.

"Do you want to?"

Micky shrugged. "It's up to you. I can dig it, that's all."

"I can dig it," translated to "I'd let you fuck me, but I wouldn't initiate it," and Mike didn't like that at all. He prayed to God this was the first time Micky had made that offer to a man he barely knew.

"No," Mike shook his head. "No, just get some rest."

"Okay," the curly-haired boy pressed his face against the pillow. "Can you sleep with me?"

Mike stood and crawled under the sheets with the smaller boy. 

"Thank you," Micky's eyes sparkled. "My dad used to sleep on the couch when my parents were going through a rough patch. I always thought that was too mean. Humans deserve to sleep in beds. Plus, you can hold me." He pressed his skinny body against Mike. 

Warmth. Mike nearly cried. He hadn't felt warm in a very long time and Micky nearly burned him. He wanted to feel it forever. 

He listened to Micky breathe. Soft baby's breath moving effortlessly past his lips. He felt Micky's heartbeat. Steady and strong, so melodic. His eyes got droopier and droopier as he thought of all the places Micky could take him. 

In the morning, the bed was empty and he was colder than before.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Micky's sunny life in California takes several unexpected turns.

September, 1973.

Sunbeams dove in through the stained glass window of Micky's Los Angeles apartment. They scattered colorful images across the messy bedroom. The morning light revealed his bookshelf, record player, various knick knacks and two golden bodies asleep in the bed, tangled together.

After traveling the country for a year and a half, Micky decided it was time to come back home. There was no home for him in the arms of stranger men that would kiss him on the neck and tell him how pretty he was. He knew that now. 

Initially, he stopped at his mom's house, having nowhere else to go. She could barely recognize her only son. His hair was longer and curlier, nearly reaching his shoulders. And he'd always been skinny, but his jeans were barely clinging to his narrow hips. 

"Oh, Micky," she pulled him in for a hug and held him for a very long time. 

He spent two months living back home. He didn't do much, helped around the house, helped his sisters with their homework, and read the same dog-eared science fiction novels again and again. Occasionally though, he'd go to a show. The Sunset Strip was teeming with new talent and Micky always loved boys that played guitar. 

One night, he walked down the strip until he heard a lovely voice crooning in a popular nightclub. He stepped in and swore he fell in love at first sight. It was a man and his guitar, alone on stage. He looked a few years older than Micky and had familiar dark hair falling in his face. He was playing a Byrds tune that Micky couldn't quite place, but he sounded beautiful. Micky stayed for the whole set and snuck backstage as soon as possible. He found the familiar but not familiar man standing in the hallway, leaning against the wall and lighting a cigarette. Micky walked up to him nervously. 

"Hi. I liked your set."

The musician let out a puff of smoke and smiled. 

"Thank you, kindly."

Micky felt a pang in his chest when he heard the southern accent, but couldn't quite understand why.

"What's your name? Y'know, just so when you get big and famous I can say 'hey! I saw that guy play in a shitty club on the strip!'" 

The dark haired man took another drag of his cigarette. His eyes twinkled though he did not smile. 

"My name's Ricky Arnold."

"Hi, Ricky," Micky grinned. "I'm Micky."

Shortly after that night, they started dating, as best they could given the circumstances. Then they got an apartment just a little ways out of Los Angeles. 

It was good for awhile. A lot of the time, it was great. Sharing a space with a man he loved, pretending that he was like every other normal couple. Until it seemed like Ricky was hiding something. And it felt like all he wanted to do when he came home was screw. 

One of the golden bodies stirred. Micky couldn't ignore the sun anymore and blinked blearily. Slowly, he sat up in bed and stretched his long arms. This in turn stirred Ricky sleeping next to him. Almost immediately, Ricky began dressing, without saying a word to the boy next to him. 

"Baby," Micky said softly. "Where you goin'?"

"Don't worry, honey," Ricky stroked a hand through the younger boy's curls. "Just going to the corner store to buy some cigarettes. I'll get you a magazine, okay?"

Micky hummed. 

Shortly after, Ricky came back and tossed a magazine at the foot of the bed, where the curly-haired boy was still lounging. Then he sat on the loveseat and started smoking. Neither said a word through this exchange. 

Micky looked at the cover. It was a copy of the latest issue of Rolling Stone, featuring an up and coming country star. Micky looked at the face that looked back at him. It was a man wearing a white cowboy hat adorned with stars. He was handsome, with dark hair, a dark beard, soulful eyes and a perfect bottom lip. 

Wait a minute.

Micky squinted. Put on his glasses. Squinted again. Took off his glasses. 

...

Mike from Texas? Skinny, shy, Mike from Texas? Mike, with the shitty pickup truck? Mike, who declined his offer of sex and slept curled around him for a full night? He looked up at Ricky. Then back at Mike. Oh, Jesus. Ricky had dark hair. Mike had dark hair. Ricky played guitar. Mike played guitar. Ricky had a southern accent. Mike had a southern accent. How'd he manage to get so hung up on this stranger without even realizing it?

He flipped a couple of pages until he saw Mike again. God, he looked good. He had filled out a little, so now he looked like a healthy twenty something instead of a malnourished musician. And the beard was...arising some very strange feelings in the pit of Micky's stomach. He began reading through the article in his head.

"Michael Nesmith," Huh. Micky realized he only got a shortened version of Mike's full name. Michael Nesmith, Michael Nesmith, Michael Nesmith. Good name, Micky decided. He kept reading. "is the next big thing in music. From humble beginnings in Texas, playing at square dancing halls, to now, playing for tens of thousands, he's really got it going on." Micky mostly skimmed the rest of the article, noting that Mike had a chart-topping single and a record that was released a few weeks ago. 

"Whatcha' readin'?" 

Micky snapped his head up. For some reason, it felt like he was cheating on Ricky just by looking at Mike.

"Nothing, really," Micky responded quickly. "Same old, same old."

Ricky smiled. "Someday you'll be gazin' at my face on the cover."

Fat chance, Micky thought sourly. "Oh, I know."

Ricky pulled him in for a long kiss, forcing his tongue in and pulling a little too hard on the smaller boy's curls. Micky remembered how gently Mike had spooned up behind him in that king sized bed in the middle of nowhere, Texas. 

Ricky pulled away and patted Micky's cheek affectionately. 

"I won't be home until Sunday, okay?" 

Sunday? He'll be gone for three days again?

"Okay," Micky managed a warm smile. 

"I'll see you then. Bye, sweetheart."

"Bye," Micky watched as Ricky closed the bedroom door behind him. He looked down at the magazine cover again. Michael Nesmith, up and coming country star. Micky felt like crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES i gave mike a beard. YES i loosely referenced the nudie suit. i did it for me, i did it for you, i did it for us, i did it for the people of america


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Micky's relationship continues to deteriorate. He turns to friends for help and gets more than he bargained for.

November, 1973

"I want to leave you,

Don't want to stay here,

Don't want to spend another day here,

Oh, oh, oh, I want to split now, 

I can't quit now..."

The radio hummed quietly in the darkened bedroom. The moon filtered in through the threadbare curtains, illuminating the patterned quilts on the bed. Also on the bed were two figures moving together almost silently.

Making love is what it was supposed to be. But Micky couldn't feel the love. And he couldn't bring himself to give it. Ricky couldn't feel it either, but he supposed it was a means to an end. He knew Micky felt lonely. He knew it was cruel to leave him for days, even weeks at times. He loved him once. It was real once. He knew that deep down. But then he saw a leggy blonde at a club, asked her name, and fell in love. All of it was easier than having a secret relationship with this pretty boy. 

So he cradled Micky's neck and kissed his forehead as gently as he could. And he looked into the kind boy's desperate eyes and wished he could do anything to make it all easier. 

-

The night ended with two bodies curled around each other. The morning started with one alone, curled around himself. Ricky stood across the room, tying his shoelaces. Micky watched, saddened but not surprised. 

"Leaving again?"

Ricky paused, not realizing Micky had stirred awake.

"I- yes."

"Okay," Micky looked down at his fingers. "Do you have to?"

Ricky cringed. Then nodded. "It ain't so bad, honey."

Micky tried not to get mad. Bitter. Irritated. He tried not to lash out. He didn't want to waste his emotions on this crumb. 

"I just wish you would tell me where you really go."

"I do tell ya," Ricky snapped. Maybe he could agitate Micky into breaking it off with him so he wouldn't have to reveal the truth. "I got gigs up in Burbank."

That was a lie. Micky was from Burbank. There were no gigs in Burbank. 

"Right," Micky breathed.

He gathered a blanket around his shoulders to hide his naked form and stood. He made his way over to the other boy and kissed him softly. Deeply. Mustering up all the romantic energy he could and translating it wordlessly through his lips. Ricky placed large hands on his ribs and kissed him back, feeling guiltier than ever. 

Micky pulled away first, smiling slightly. "Don't be gone too long."

"I won't." That was a lie. "Don't worry."

Ricky left and Micky crumpled up on the floor. The sunlight kissed his naked shoulders and it was some of the warmest love he'd felt in ages. 

-

When Micky wasn't spending hours alone in his apartment, he was usually working. By some stroke of luck, he'd managed to get a job as a tailor for a designer boutique called Star's. He lied through most of his interview and fumbled with needle and thread for the first few weeks, but managed to keep the job. 

Working alongside him for many hours of the day was a feisty little Brit named Davy. He was quick, short, and pretty sharp-tongued most of the time. But he taught Micky almost everything he knew about tailoring and kept him company when he was especially lonely.

"He's gone again," Micky sighed. 

Davy hummed with a section of thread between his teeth. He snipped the other end. "Again? Not exactly surprising..."

"Davy!" Micky whined, elongating the 'y'. "Have a heart, will ya? I'm so lonely and it hurts so bad," he flopped dramatically against his seat. 

"Oh, poor baby," Davy deadpanned. "This wouldn't happen if you gave him a swift kick to the arse like I suggested." 

Micky whined again. "You know it's not that simple. I didn't get as lucky as you. I mean, Pete's practically your soulmate."

Davy tossed an empty pincushion at the curly-haired boy's head. Micky ducked and stuck his tongue out at him. 

"Peter is not my soulmate. We're just...close roommates," Davy started stitching a hem on a pair of unbelievably sparkly trousers. "Speaking of Peter, he invited me to a party one of his musician friends is having. You should come. Get out of the house. Maybe meet a pretty blonde."

Micky threw a hand over his forehead and adopted a bad English accent. "Oh, Davy, I'd love to come but I'm afraid I'm far too heartbroken! There's a chance that I could never recover!" He closed his eyes and pretended to be dead. Then waited for several beats before cracking open one eye. "Unless, of course, I get true love's kiss from a certain five foot three Mancunian prince," he puckered his lips and waited. 

Davy threw another pincushion at him. 

-

Peter was a nice boy. He had waves of silky blonde hair that nearly passed his shoulders and warm brown eyes. Micky liked him. Maybe even more than he liked Davy. He even considered hooking up with him at one point, but then noticed how Davy tended to gaze at the blonde boy. 

Instead of driving, Peter decided to walk the three of them to the party. He liked the fresh air and, more importantly, he didn't know how to drive. 

They walked on a hill in a much more affluent part of Los Angeles than they were used to. Micky was nervous. The three of them didn't exactly pass as straight, God-fearing boys with their long hair and freaky clothing choices. And walking on a dark street like this one was never that safe for boys like them. 

But he trusted Peter and kept going. 

The sounds of music and people talking, laughing, yelling filtered through the air. Micky looked ahead and saw multicolored lights dancing in between the trees. 

"Whose house are we going to?" Davy asked.

"One of my friends from New York. You've met him. He looks a lot like me," Peter replied. 

Davy scrunched his nose, recalling the man's crooked teeth and receding hairline. "I don't think you look alike at all."

Peter smiled pleasantly.

"Isn't he super famous right now? Are we really gonna mesh well with the elites of the music world?" Micky asked. 

"Sure we will. They're people just like us, right?"

Micky shrugged. 

Eventually, they made it to the house. House might've been an understatement. This was, by all definition, a mansion. Big. With multiple floors, a gate, a pool and a large yard teeming with people doing varied illegal activities.

Micky and Davy were both a little shocked, but Peter took it in stride, calmly walking through the open doors.

"I'm gonna make sure he doesn't accept any candy from strangers," Davy sighed, following the blonde boy. 

Micky grabbed his sleeve. "Don't leave me, man, I don't know these people!"

"You'll be fine, Micky," Davy removed Micky's hand from his jacket. "As I recall, you're very good at making friends." He winked before scurrying off after Peter before Micky could swing at him.

Even though Davy was making a crack at his past relationships with many men in many states, his words were true. Micky was good at making friends. He was pretty outgoing and liked having the spotlight on him, but this was intimidating. There were actual real life celebrities here. It made him anxious. He stood against the wall and watched people move and drink and smoke and talk while he picked at a hangnail. He felt a little pathetic. God damn it, Davy. And Peter. Though he felt bad getting mad at sweet Peter.

He spotted a staircase and decided it would probably be quieter and less rowdy in the basement area. He made his way down, passing couples pressed against the wall and smiling boys high off grass. The basement was pleasant. There were tapestries hung up and warm-toned area rugs scattering the floor. A record played loudly and sweet smelling smoke hung densely in the air. He accepted a joint from a pretty blonde girl and scanned the spacious room. 

He didn't recognize anyone as being famous. It just seemed to be wayward kids like himself. Long hair, bell bottoms, lots of nudity. He saw a man n the corner sitting in a loveseat. He looked lonely on purpose. He looked...shockingly familiar. The man turned and the light hit his features just right. 

It was him. It was Mike.

Micky turned and raced back upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok is peter's musician friend stephen stills? thats for you to decide . no but i don't like putting real ppl in my fics typically but. i mean yeah it's him but u didn't hear that from me


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Micky makes a new beginning for himself. Breaking off the old and the tired and starting fresh with a warm, clear dream.

November, 1973.

There’s no way Mike would recognize him. There was no way. Micky was sure. To Mike, he was just a stray. A weird, curly-haired stray that left him alone in a motel somewhere near Dallas.

But for some reason, his chest continued to tighten.

He climbed back up the stairs again and burst through the same front door that he had just entered several moments before. He needed to find Davy. Or Peter. And...and...leave, he guessed. He couldn’t run the risk of bumping into Mike. It would be too awkward. Even if Mike didn’t recognize him. For some reason, it mattered to him.

Micky scanned the expansive yard, squinting his eyes. There were so many people. A sea of people, of all different shapes and sizes. There was no way he’d be able to find Davy and Peter. Not like this. He grabbed the shoulder of a wandering boy with hair long just like everyone else.

“Hey, uh, have you seen a short guy, ‘bout yea high? Has a funny accent?” he asked, gesturing with his hand.

“Yea high?” the boy responded slowly. “Man, I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout yea high!” He giggled and drifted away into the house.

Micky furrowed his brow.

What could he do? Where could he go? He didn’t try all that hard to find Peter or Davy but he just didn’t know where to start. He supposed he could walk back home. But it felt dangerous. Walking the streets of Los Angeles all by himself. Or going back to his apartment, alone and cold. No Davy. No Peter. No Ricky.

He knew where Mike was though.

But that couldn’t be a possibility. Mike was big and famous now. And he probably didn’t remember Micky. And he probably had loads of girls to choose from every night. And-

“Hey?”

Micky felt a tap on his shoulder and spun around. His eyes widened and mouth fell open as he came face to face with the face he saw on the magazine cover. Dark hair, dark beard, deep eyes, round cheeks. He experienced a tidal wave of emotion. Quickly, he recovered, covering his anxiety and shock up with a dazzling smile.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

Mike cocked his head. “I think you do. Two years ago, Texas?”

“I saw a lot of people in Texas.”

"Micky, right?” Mike smiled warmly and Micky felt his knees go slightly weak.

He nodded. “Mike, right?”

“Right,” Mike smiled wider, showing all his crooked teeth.

They stood in silence for a moment, the air heavy. Micky usually knew how to fill the silence. He had tons of conversation starters, topics. He knew a lot of stupid jokes that didn’t do much except cut the silence. Everyone liked to laugh. But right now, he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know if Mike felt the same way about him. Yearned for him. Longed for him. It sounded a little cheesy, but it was true. It was a real and true yearning he’d been feeling deep inside night after lonely night. Thankfully, Mike spoke first.

“Do you wanna go somewhere and talk?”

“What’s there to talk about?” Bad reply, bad reply. Micky didn’t mean for it to come out that way.

“Well, geez, I dunno. A lot has happened in the last two years, y’know? I just thought,” he scratched the back of his head. “I don’t know what I thought.”

“No, no, I’m sorry. We can talk. I’d love to talk,” he smiled again and hoped the charm was working on Mike.

They walked a little distance to an alcove deep in the darkened garden behind the house. Surrounded by vines and flowers and sparkling lights high above his head, Micky felt something in the atmosphere change. It felt cosmically charged. Like the stars were aligning differently, changing their minds and trying something new. Micky supposed he should do the same. Life with Ricky had become monotonous. Waiting for him to come home, twiddling his thumbs, then sleeping next to him in the same bed, waiting for him to leave again. This had been new to Micky, he’d always been the one to leave. Maybe it was time to pick up that habit again.

He looked at Mike, and Mike looked at him, though he couldn’t make out much in the dark. Micky laughed, bowing his head self consciously.

“What’s so funny?” Mike asked, his voice soft.

“I didn’t even know you that long, but,” Micky fiddled with his fingers. “You were so kind to me. You never left my mind, you know. Never, ever.”

Mike’s eyes widened slightly and his face cracked into a beautiful smile. “You never left either. I’ve been looking for you ever since that night. I just didn’t know where to find you.”

Micky shrugged. “I don’t like being found. Or at least I didn’t, at the time.”

"I got that impression from you,” Mike knit his brows together. “Was always scared for you. You looked too young and too pretty to be walking around Texas all by yourself.”

Micky brushed a few stray curls away from his forehead. Mike was right. He was too young and too pretty to be walking around Texas all alone. He knew that then just as much as he knew that now. When he looked back on that time in his life, he was surprised he made it out alive. No one had tried anything with him, which he was grateful for, but there were a few close calls and sketchy situations with sketchy men that made him a little sick. America was full of freaks.

"Yeah, well. I made it out alive.” He grinned again. Big and wide, showing all of his teeth.

“I’m glad. I’m really, really glad to see you again. To see you alive.” Mike touched the smaller man’s cheek for a moment. Just a small touch. A little bit of physical content to make sure he was real and wouldn’t fly away with the wind. Then he went quiet for a moment. Micky went quiet too, the air thick with unasked and unanswered questions.

“Micky,” Mike breathed after a moment. Micky looked up, holding eye contact a little fearfully, unsure of what was to come. “Come home with me.”

Micky’s heart sank to the pit of his stomach. His fingers moved quickly against each other.

“Come home with you?” he whispered, eyes widened.

Mike’s expression changed, instantly realizing what he was inadvertently suggesting. “I didn’t mean it like that, honest. I’m sorry, that was too fast. I’ve just missed you.”

“No, no,” Micky shook his head. “Not that. It’s just that, well, I have a boyfriend,” he grimaced at the word. “And I live with him.”

“Oh,” Mike replied. It was a funny little word. “Oh” could mean so many things.

Micky placed his hand on Mike’s upper arm and got closer to him, forgetting he was in a public place. “But I don’t love him. I swear. He...he’s mean to me. He leaves me. Often. I get so lonely.” The words flew out quickly. Micky was unable to contain his feelings anymore.

“Just give me some time,” he placed a hand on the older man’s cheek, brushing his fingers against the coarse hair on his skin. “Only a little. I just gotta sort some things out and then I’m yours, okay?”

Micky was a little surprised at what he was suggesting. But he’d never felt this way about anyone. Not even Ricky. With Ricky, his love was uneven. Rocky, like an unpaved path. Gravel and dirt crunching under each beat of his heart. With Mike, his love was a little overwhelming. Blinding, bursting, like a fire gone out of control. Flames licking up every sense, filling him with heat.

Mike hesitantly placed both hands on Micky’s narrow waist, feeling the same warmth he felt in that dusty motel.

“I’ve been waiting for two years. I can wait some more.” He smiled, assuring Micky that it was all right.

And Micky believed him. It would all be alright.

-  
The night ended quickly, with Micky running high on hope and belief. He’d made a plan earlier. He would leave Ricky, leave the cold apartment, leave it all behind to build a new life. He’d always been impulsive, but not like this. There was never a relationship in his life so strong that he had to break so suddenly and violently. The more he thought it over, the more he supposed that Ricky deserved it.

Micky knew. Micky knew there was a girl. It always happened, but he never expected it to happen with Ricky, which he now saw was obviously a mistake. He just thought he could hold onto this dream forever. Hold onto this kind southern boy that sang him pretty songs and kissed him all over, spreading love throughout every nerve ending. But Ricky found a girl. They always found a girl. It was easier. It was always easier to settle down with a kind girl and love her as much as you could. Micky would never. Could never. He never tried but, what was the point? Assimilating into what was considered “normal” just to appease those around him? It was choosing the easy way out. And the easy way out looked like a life of pain. And Micky was a hedonist anyways.

He had entered his apartment and slept through what was left of the night. He was, of course, alone in the big bed. The only thing keeping him warm were the knitted blankets that were fraying at the ends. No Ricky, no anybody. The more he thought about him, the angrier he got.

But thoughts of Ricky were quelled by thoughts of Mike. Mike, finally. Mike, who was kind and handsome and expected nothing from him. Mike would take care of him, he was sure of it. He would protect Micky from bad dreams and unkind boys with sores on their fingertips. Mike would hold him close every morning, no matter what. Micky made a sleepy sound and hugged his pillow tight to his chest in the early morning light.

Micky dozed a few more moments, comforted by various thoughts and fantasies of this new life with Mike. He was almost a stranger. Micky didn’t even know his middle name. But it had always felt so much different.

Micky snuffled sleepily and blinked, eyes adjusting to the light. He stood and stretched, getting on his tiptoes and reaching his arms up to almost touch the ceiling. Warmth rushed through the entire length of his body, filling him with a sparkling, decadent feeling. It felt incredible.

“Hello, beautiful.”

And just like that, the feeling vanished.  
Micky whipped his head around to meet eyes with Ricky. He scrambled to cover his naked form with a blanket. Ricky stepped forward and placed one hand on his lower back and one on his cheek. Micky blushed furiously, feeling something beyond embarrassment.

“Don’t,” he shrugged out of his touch, looking away.

Ricky huffed. “Are you still in a mood about me leaving? Christ, you ain’t fuckin’ stupid, I don’t know how many more ways I can tell you I got gigs.”

Micky scowled, heat rising to his temples. He made direct eye contact with the taller boy, shooting daggers from his pupils.  
"Cut it out. That’s not true and we both know it. What’s her name?”

“Her name? What exactly are you accusing me of, boy?” Ricky narrowed his eyes.

Micky gathered the blanket around him, using it as a shield against Ricky’s hurtful words. “You said it best. I ain’t fuckin’ stupid. No one leaves for weeks at a time for gigs. You knock her up?"

“Did I knock her up?” Ricky’s voice raised in volume. “You’re delusional. Stop being a brat.”

"Fine. You had your chance,” Micky let the blanket fall and walked over to the dresser. He started dressing as he spoke. “I’m leaving you. I’ve had enough. The apartment’s yours if you want it. Little small to raise a family in, but I'm sure you can make it work.” He spoke quickly, logically, words tinged with venom.

Ricky was speechless. He watched Micky wide-eyed as the younger boy pulled his shirt over his head. Then realization hit him and he bounded over to him.

He grabbed his upper arm and spun him around to face him. “Micky-”

Micky gasped in equal parts horror and disgust and pulled out of the taller man’s grasp. “Don’t fucking touch me. Ever.” He held his arm against his chest as if he’d broken it.

Ricky huffed, frustrated. “Micky, tell me what’s going on, baby.”

Micky scowled even deeper, his already arched eyebrows appearing even more intense. Despite his anger, tears formed in his eyes. “Don’t call me baby. I’m not your baby. You blew your chance. And I am leaving.”

He’d planned to take some of his personal belongings with him, but his legs carried him out the door faster than his brain could keep up with. The fresh, morning air filled his lungs, filled his senses. It smelled like starting over. It smelled like home.

Most of all, it smelled like Mike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was so hard. also very dramatic. sorry . hope u enjoyed yeah


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